


To Thee I Leave Hope

by NathanielCardeu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Quidditch, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23569093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathanielCardeu/pseuds/NathanielCardeu
Summary: She had inherited a financial nightmare with no idea how to save it. How can you possibly save something that you barely have an interest in?At least there may be something else to distract her from her woes.
Relationships: Terry Boot/Hermione Granger
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old, old story, from the GE days. I've dusted it off as we're all on lockdown and started giving it a bit of a spring clean.
> 
> It's still not perfect, and far too short, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> I will post the other chapters soon.

**_Part 1: Tactics and Revelations_ **

“And those of us that visited her store, always felt welcome; as if visiting a favourite aunt.” The man paused in his (in Hermione’s opinion at least) overly flowery eulogy; presumably to give the gathered mourners a chance to nod and agree. Hermione picked imaginary dust off of her black skirt, avoiding looking up, hoping to get through this funeral without having to speak to anyone. Her top was a plain, white blouse decorated with a single black rose; she had altered its colour for the occasion. Her hair was loose and stirring in the wind, bushy and unruly, as usual. She had kept her make-up simple and basic, the better to avoid attention.

The speaker – a distant family member of the deceased, Hermione thought, judging by the resemblance – picked up his eulogy again and Hermione stifled a sigh. As he regaled the congregation with verbose descriptions of how loved Nannette had been, Hermione grimaced. The man’s words were slightly hypocritical in her opinion; where had he been when Nannette had needed help before? Hermione just wanted this to be over so she could get on.

Instantly, she regretted those thoughts. Nannette Duggen _had_ been a lovely woman, a saint really, and Hermione had enjoyed their occasional talks. They were conversations about love, relationships and learning of Diagon Alley’s recovery and rebuilding in the forties, after the Muggle war had devastated London. And she had been more than happy to help the old lady out when her shop had nearly gone under.

Hermione was currently sitting on a small fortune thanks to her business dealings in the last decade. Since the war she had completed her N.E.W.T.S by returning to Hogwarts, worked for a time in the Ministry of Magic pushing for extra rights for the non-humans in the Wizarding world, and written her auto-biography. The latter had been against her better judgement but there was such pressure for the “Golden Trio”, as she, Harry, and Ron had been branded, to write their story that she had eventually surrendered to the demands of her peers.

She was proud that hers was a simple tale of three friends caught up in a terrible war that had been bigger than anyone could have imagined. She still found it amusing, considering the books that they had each produced were, essentially, the same story, that they had such wildly differing moments in them! Where hers tried to remain factual and simple, without embellishment – well, only a little embellishment in places – the boys’ books were either full of heroism and high adventure or lacked any acknowledgement of personal achievement.

Ron’s fell firmly into the former category. His was little more than a string of great battles and mighty deeds, many of which found Ron stepping up and saving the day. Hermione could happily give him his due in some places; he had gotten them through the chess trap, had saved Harry from drowning and retrieved a Basilisk fang to destroy one of Voldemeort’s Horcruxes, to name but a few. Those parts of the tale remained fairly true to life. Unfortunately, the rest of the tale found Ron Weasley taking a much larger role than the reality.

Harry’s version was a little better, but he spent much of the book downplaying his abilities and it came across as full of false modesty. He _had_ done great things and there was no getting away from this fact. Yet Harry insisted, throughout his slim volume, that he had achieved it all through mere luck and following greater witches and wizards than himself. Hermione was embarrassed at the amount of praise Harry heaped upon her own head, though was sensible enough to realise it wasn't all exaggeration.

Hermione’s fell between the two; factual, with all its precise, logical order, and stirring, with vivid descriptions of the various battles – descriptions gathered from those who were there in most cases. When Hermione set herself a project she was determined to complete it to the best of her ability.

Consequently, her auto-biography outsold both of the boys’ and made her more of a sensation in the Wizarding world. It had also reaped her a small fortune: a fortune that she had decided to put to good use. So began Hermione’s business venture with Florish and Blotts, buying into the business and helping them renovate the store. The two men used Hermione’s investment to branch out and incorporate the stationary store, thereby expanding their business from books to all written and writing paraphernalia.

Hermione chose her investments carefully, swiftly gaining a shrewd mind for it. At the age of 31, she had a stake in almost half of the shops in Diagon Alley, a beautiful central London flat, and a reputation for being the person to go to if your business was in trouble.

And so Nannette Duggen had come to see her, almost seven years ago now.

For the last fifty years Nannette had owned Quality Quidditch Supplies; a store that had been doing quite well, until recently. Nannette’s husband had died a couple of years previous, leaving her to run the shop alone. With no family locally, and few people she could turn to for help, the store’s fortunes started to slide.

Hermione had agreed to help, and as she had really hit it off with Nannette, she insisted on only took a 5% share in the shop, in return for pulling it back from the brink of financial ruin, rather than 25% which she would have done if it had been any other shop on Diagon Alley. In truth, she cared almost nothing for Quidditch, especially since school had ended. So, once the deal had been completed, Hermione had almost completely forgotten about it.

She remembered it now though, she thought to herself with a wry smile, as she mouthed general pleasantries with various people at the end of the funeral. Those distant family members who had travelled to London for the funeral eyed her suspiciously, knowing of her new status as sole owner of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The rest of the day passed by swiftly, Hermione managing to escape from those that would have talked her ear off given the chance – business partners from Diagon Alley, reporters and friends. She didn’t like avoiding her friends; it had been too long since she had just sat and spoken with them, asked how they were doing and caught up, but she had to get over to her new shop and take stock of what she had been left with.

Nannette’s will had been specific; Hermione was bequeathed the old lady’s share of the store, bringing the young witch’s total share up to 100%. She was also to do her best to make a success of the shop once more. The rest of Nannette’s family had been furious at first, but the state of the store’s sales was public knowledge. It was obvious that the shop was going to take some serious work to save it and none of the family had the time or the inclination. Or, in all honesty, the money.

Maybe Nannette had meant it as some kind of misguided kindness, a way of repaying Hermione’s own, but the young witch knew the store was in serious financial trouble again. She was dreading looking at the ledger!

***

With a thud Hermione’s head hit the large ledger in front of her. She had been studying the financial records of Quality Quidditch Supplies for the last three days and had only just begun to appreciate the enormous problem she had inherited. Sales at the shop had been falling for the last few months, stock had just sat on the shelves with debts mounting up, and business transactions had failed repeatedly, bringing the shop to the brink of total ruin.

There was a flutter of wings and a rustle of paper. Hermione looked up in a sudden panic, casting about, looking for the envelope she dreaded to see. Sure enough, there was a new envelope, addressed to her, sat on the desk.

A red one.

The owl that had dropped it was already flying out the door as fast as its wings would take it and the envelope itself had started to smoke. “Oh, come on!” Hermione cried, desperately trying to gather her papers together. “That’s the third one today! I’ve just cleaned up from the last one…”

Her words were snatched away as the envelope tore itself in half and leapt into the air. The tear became a mouth and the booming, amplified, nasal voice of some annoying pencil-pusher, issued from it.

“MISS GRANGER! OUR INVOICE, NUMBER Q823353, REMAINS UNPAID AND IS EXTREMELY OVERDUE. PLEASE SEND PAYMENT OF 275 GALLEONS BY NEXT AVAILABLE OWL IN ORDER TO AVOID FURTHER PROBLEMS AND ADMINISTRATION FEES. PLEASE NOTE THAT FURTHER REMINDERS WILL INCUR AN ADMINISTRATION CHARGE OF 25 GALLEONS. GOOD DAY!”

As the Howler tore itself apart Hermione stood, dejected, in a rain of invoices and receipts. With a sigh, she began gathering the sheets of paper up again. Another 275 Galleons. She pawed through the pages that filled the desk, searching for the invoice mentioned. Unable to find it on top of the desk, she dropped to her hands and knees and ventured beneath the table, gathering the spilled pages together.

A man’s voice stopped her in her tracks, making her start in surprise. “Invoice Q823353,” it said over the sound of Hermione’s head bashing against the underside of the desk. As she struggled out from under the table she swore colourfully under her breath, as a pile of pages slid off the table to spread out across the floor.

The man continued speaking, as if he couldn’t hear Hermione’s grumbles. “Quality Quidditch Supplies, Diagon Alley, for the attention of Nannette Duggen. Delivery of four boxes of new Quaffles, year 2010 World Cup standard. Hmm, wouldn’t have bought them to be honest. The 2010 was a flawed design. Payment due… ouch. That was a _long_ time ago!”

Hermione peered over the edge of the table to the man that stood by the door. He was tall, dressed in Quidditch robes of bright orange, a speeding cannonball stitched onto the front. Hermione knew that there would be a double C on the back; she had seen Ron’s team robes and he was the Chudley Cannons’ current keeper – apparently, their best one in some time.

The man that now walked towards her, however, wasn’t her ex-boyfriend. This man was dark haired and walked with an easy confidence. There would be more than just the Cs on his back. She stood up, tossing the gathered pages onto the table and brushed herself down. She glanced at the papers still scattered across the floor.

The man perched on the edge of the desk and held out the invoice in his hand. With a dazzling smile he said, “I have to admit. I thought you’d have a better filing system, Hermione. A cabinet is a good place to start. Helps to hide the mess.”

Hermione smiled tightly as she took the proffered page. “Is that possibly the same filing system that the Cannons use to store all their previous league results?”

The man clutched his chest and staggered away from the table. “Oh! She wounds me!” he cried dramatically, leaning against the wall in mock pain. Hermione could see the double C on the back of the robes, as well as the expected word, MANAGER.

“I’ll do more than wound you if you don’t help me tidy this mess up, Terrance Boot!” Her tone was severe but there was a smile on her face. She couldn’t be too mad at Terry; having looked through the ledgers it appeared that the current manager of the Chudley Cannons was almost the only customer this shop had left. The tall, dark and handsome Ravenclaw was also the best Manager the Cannons had had in years. They actually won two out of every three matches these days.

“Heard the Howler,” Terry said, with a sympathetic smile. “I guess Nannette was in worse trouble than she was letting on, eh?”

He joined Hermione at the table and together they began the task of tidying the papers away. It took some time, but they talked of inconsequential things, crossing verbal swords and laughing together. Terry asked if she had thought about plans for her birthday as it was only a few days away now. Hermione was dismissive of this, claiming to be too busy this year. She was quietly touched that Terry had even remembered her birthday! As the sun began to set, the pair of them had invoices and receipts separated and sorted into order.

As they had worked, Terry was reminded of previous times he had spent time with Hermione. DA meetings at Hogwarts where he had spent more time observing and watching Hermione than paying attention to Harry Potter. There had been conversations and laughter during their sixth year, when Ron had upset her and driven her away. Hermione had spent a fair amount of time with her intellectual equals in Ravenclaw, talking and laughing with Luna, Cho and him. In truth Terry knew that Hermione was smarter than some Ravenclaws he knew; even he had trouble matching her intellect and wit at times, but she had never flaunted that. She was modest and warm, and it was from this time that he had carried a torch for her in his heart. In later years they had liaised briefly at the Ministry on some items of obscure law and precedent, before they had both moved on to their current careers. Each meeting, no matter how brief, had reinforced his feelings for the brilliant witch.

Hermione flopped into a large chair as Terry waved his wand at the kettle in the corner, setting it to boil and two cups of tea to prepare themselves. When they were ready, he floated one cup into Hermione’s hand. As she took a sip and murmured a thank you, Terry sat on the edge of the desk again, taking a sip of his own tea, momentarily lost in his thoughts of dark eyes and bushy hair.

Hermione let out a moan and her head lolled back in her chair. The sight of her neck, exposed to his eyes, the pale skin looking so soft and delicate, stirred a fire inside him. It made him think thoroughly unprofessional thoughts.

“So… how bad is it then?” he asked, quietly. “Three Howlers in one day means that it’s pretty bad.”

Hermione nodded, wearily. “I’ve had _seven_ Howlers in the last couple of days, all of them for stock that seems perfectly logical to me… but they just never sold. I don’t know what went wrong.”

“May I?” Terry inquired, gesturing to the ledger.

“Help yourself,” Hermione said with a sigh. “I do not understand Quidditch, but business is business, right? There can’t be much difference in how this shop is run to every other shop, can there?”

“Not really,” said Terry with a shrug as he settled in front of the book, reading through the last few pages of entries.

“This shop is going to eat into my finances, Terry. Pulling it out of this hole, enough that I can sell it at the least… never mind making a success of it again, as Nannette wanted… it’s going to cost me a fortune!” Hermione leant back in her chair, a hand over her eyes. “I mean, I know that QQS has got competition. The other shop down the Alley, Double-Eight Quidditch, is fairly new, but there’s room in Diagon Alley for two Quidditch shops, isn't there? There’s no reason why one should drive the other out of business.”

“Unless that was the plan,” muttered Terry, turning another page.

“What do you mean?” Hermione said, sitting up and looking at Terry in the dim lamp light. The sun had set completely now while they had sat and talked, Diagon Alley was quiet and almost completely empty. All of the other shops had closed up and they were nearly the only ones with lamps burning in the windows still, and the few final stragglers were wending their way towards the Leaky Cauldron for a night cap.

“Well, Nannette bought ten Firebolt IVs a few months back,” Terry said, his tone slightly worried, as he turned to look at Hermione.

“Is that bad?” she asked, standing and moving over to stand next to him. “I don't know much, but I thought the Firebolt was good. Harry certainly still loves his one, despite its age. I'm sure your team all fly on Firebolts too, don't you?”

“We do, and it was. And so were Firebolts II and III. But the IV was a flop,” Terry said, still surprised that Nannette had bought so many of them, without orders to back them up. “It had too many flaws. The bristles were too fragile and the head stock was changeable for different styles.” Terry waved his hand dismissively. “That was a short lived fad; customisable front ends, mainly for posers, but it made the hand grip unstable and liable to twist under force. Useless for professional players.”

“So why did she buy them?” Hermione leant forward to peer closely at the ledger and tried to read it upsidedown.

“Well, the Firebolt _was_ the leader, so it made sense that the market would continue in that vein,” Terry said, turning back to previous pages and pointing out the times that Firebolts had been ordered over any other broom. “But the Nimbus X came out a day after the IV. It had none of the flaws and was a simple, back-to-basics design. The fad with changeable front ends was over. Everyone bought the Nimbus and it completely scuppered the Firebolt IV. Almost ruined the company, until they released the V last month. Things are picking up for them again, especially as a certain professional team has agreed to endorse them and got a whole bushel of free brooms as a sponsorship deal.”

She grinned at his satisfied smile, and moved round the table to stand next to him, leaning over his shoulder to read. He looked up at her, feeling a little warm, now that she was standing so close. He had kept quiet about his feelings for the clever witch for many years, thinking that he wouldn’t stand a chance; after all, she had wanted Weasley back then. Times change, however, and he never dreamt that he would find himself shut in a small room with her, lit by candlelight, her hair tickling his ear. Her scent filled his senses, a new perfume from the one he remembered; parchment, vanilla and the smell of Quaffles. It was a strange and heady mix of smells that reminded him of Hermione and her place in this new world that she, surprisingly, professed to know next to nothing about. In truth, he thought she was downplaying her knowledge in this regard

Hermione became aware of his gaze and twisted her head to look at him, caught by his eyes. He seemed to be thinking very hard about something and Hermione suddenly wanted to know everything he had ever thought of. She had spent the last ten years of her life so completely immersed in her business empire that she had completely missed out on a relationship of her own. She and Ron had dated for a while, but had drifted apart while she was still at Hogwarts. Besides, not to be mean spirited, but Ron had hardly been mentally stimulating for her. There had been a brief fling with Seamus Finnigan some time after that, when they had gotten drunk at his 21st birthday celebration. The relationship had lasted a whole month and was _definitely_ not thought provoking; completely physical and, actually, very good fun. After Seamus… nothing. In truth, she hadn’t missed it all that much. She had been too busy.

Now she was standing next to a very handsome and very successful man, who was looking at her like the rest of the world had ceased to exist. She was reminded of their previous dealings and what wonderful company he had been at those times. He was helpful and charming, he could make her laugh with his sharp wit and he was so very clever. Perfectly like a Ravenclaw, without any condescension or arrogance.

Slowly, almost as if moving through treacle, their heads drifted closer together. Hermione felt her chest aching with the desire to kiss him. Her skin tingled as she saw Terry quickly wet his lips nervously and an image of his hot tongue on hers surged through her mind.

There was an explosive flutter of wings and an owl burst in through the open fireplace. The sudden noise made the pair of them jump and the moment splintered apart, both of them reeling away from each other as if burned. The owl dropped its delivery, a letter addressed to Hermione from yet another Quidditch supplier, and with a flick of its tail the turned and vanished out the way it had arrived.

With a laugh, Terry cleared his throat. “Cheeky buggers. At least it’s not a Howler,” he muttered. His heart was racing as if he had just run a mile. He had almost kissed Hermione Granger! That would have been something, he thought with a smile.

“Nannette must have been blindsided by this Firebolt thing,” he muttered, his smile fading as he looked down at the ledger again. “There were a lot of discussions about the new Firebolt and the Nimbus; which one was the better design, which was going to be better for the sport, etcetera. Those of us able to get into the meetings were able to see that the market was most likely going to embrace the Nimbus. I remember now, Nannette was ill at the time and she couldn’t travel. Why take a gamble though, unless she had been told it was a sure thing… Merlin’s Beard!”

His sudden exclamation caught her by surprise; she had gone back to watching his profile as he spoke, the play of the shadows across his face, as the lamps flickered. “What? What is it?”

“Wronski Feint!”

“Um, bless you?” she muttered, puzzled.

“Huh?” Terry said, glancing up at her confused expression. “No, no... The Wronski Feint. It’s a Quidditch manoeuvre, a Seeker tactic?”

When she continued to look nonplussed, Terry shook his head slightly. “Ahem-Krum,” he coughed, smiling when Hermione flushed pink as she remembered her brief time with the Bulgarian Seeker.

Then comprehension dawned on her eyes as she remembered when she had heard the phrase before. “Krum used that manoeuvre in the 1994 World Cup Final match!”

Terry nodded and said, “Yeah, one Seeker dives as if they have seen the Snitch, drawing the other Seeker with him. The first Seeker then pulls up at the last second, tricking the other Seeker into hitting the ground.”

As he spoke, Hermione began to piece together what he was implying. “So, wait, you’re saying that someone made Nannette think that the Firebolt was going to win out, so she ordered it…

“And then got hit when no-one bought them,” he finished angrily, standing up and surprising her again. "I bet I know who it was too.”

“Who?” asked Hermione, looking at the ledger for the answer that Terry seemed to have deduced.

“Since this shop’s fortunes began to slide there has been someone else, someone doing very well, comparatively. I suspect that this is less a case of poor business decisions, and more a case of sabotage by a rival.”

“The owner of Double-Eight Quidditch,” stated Hermione, feeling a thrill at the flash of anger in his eyes.

He nodded as he stepped around her, heading for the door. Looking back he saw her half move towards him, one hand starting to lift, as if to stop him leaving, maybe to ask him to stay. Inside he felt a surge of happiness, realising that she returned at least some of his feelings for her.

Moving back to her side he leant in conspiratorially. “Listen, Hermione,” he said, quickly. “I think I can find a way of proving what’s happened here. I’ve got an idea but I’ll need some time. I’ll be back in a day or so, okay?” Suddenly he planted a firm kiss on her cheek. “For luck,” he laughed, heading for the door.

He was moving away again and she felt suddenly lonely, missing his closeness. “Terry,” she called, liking the sound of his name on her lips. Her cheek felt hot and the desire to grab him by the robes and kiss him on the lips was almost painful. “What if we’re able to prove that it _is_ the other store manager?”

Terry’s grin was predatory and Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “Then, my fair lady, you and I go to war!”

***


	2. Part 2 - Managerial Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Tidying this up took a lot longer than I thought, and since I'm working from home I haven't had much time to myself, which is weird considering most of us have nothing but time these days!
> 
> Anyhoo, enjoy!

Hermione straightened and adjusted the various knick-knacks on the mantelpiece for the fifth time today. She couldn’t settle and wait calmly. She hadn’t been able to relax, ever since Terry had left her at QQS that night. He had said that he had an idea and that he would be back… but it had been two days now and the clock was about to signal the start of another, midnight only a few minutes away.

Fighting the urge to pace, Hermione threw herself onto the plush sofa, facing the fireplace. The flames danced and twirled over the logs in a dextrous display, the warmth helping to ease some of her tension. Shifting into a more comfortable position Hermione adjusted her nightgown and drew a warm throw over her legs. The nightgown was one of her favourites; black silk, mid-thigh length with white lace decoration at the edges. It was the only thing she was wearing; even though she was single and lived alone she still wanted to feel sexy on occasion. Hermione gazed up at the ceiling, tracing its whorls and lines, wondering _why_ she had wanted to feel sexy tonight.

It didn't take her long to come up with an answer. She hadn’t been able to get Terry Boot out of her mind, no matter how hard she tried. It was like he had moved in and set up camp. His hair, his eyes, that wonderful smile that lit up his whole face when she had scored a winning shot in their verbal sparring. It was as if he was genuinely pleased to have met his match.

His match… now there was a thought.

Hermione smiled as she wondered what spending some more quality time with Terry Boot would be like. Certainly not dull – his wit was rapier-sharp and he was so very intelligent. Handsome too. He cut a very fine figure in his Quidditch robes, lean and well muscled. The possibility of Terry visiting her may have a lot to do with her choice of night wear. She shook her head, closing her eyes to imagine him better. Who would have thought that Quidditch would have become such a focus for her? After all, she didn’t even like the game, not really.

She was beginning to think she may have underestimated the sport.

There was a musical chime and Hermione sat up, startled. She must have dozed off – the fire had burned lower and her eyes felt a little scratchy. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep but that chime indicated an arrival through the Floo. Blearily she looked at the clock, surprised to see that it was nearly 2am.

Standing, her heart pounded as she wondered who would be arriving at this hour. Part of her hoped for a clandestine meeting with a certain Quidditch manager. A half remembered dream from just now made her flush slightly, her skin warming at the thought of him arriving in the dead of night.

She was therefore shocked but very pleased when Terry Boot did, indeed, step out of the fireplace. The flames surged as he materialised, emerald green reaching for the top of the chimney. He was dressed in dark trousers and a loose shirt that, despite hiding his upper body, seemed to accentuate the aura of strength that surrounded him. That smile… oh, Merlin, that smile was firmly in place and aimed directly at her. In his hands were various items but she could only stare at his face.

He crossed the distance between them quickly. With an easy grin, triumph flashing in his dark eyes, he held out his hands. She took the items blindly, still unable to lower her gaze, her breath catching as his hands touched hers briefly.

“I’m sorry for calling so late, Hermione, but I had something to tell you that couldn’t wait. Three things.”

Hermione tried to say, “No problem.” In truth it sounded more like a breathy moan as her throat failed her. He looked so much more amazing in the dark, still of the night, lit from behind by firelight. She remembered that she was practically naked and she felt an intense warmth between her legs as her mind suggested things to her.

“One,” he said, placing his hand on her left one. “Flowers.”

Hermione glanced down at them, surprised to see that she was indeed holding a wonderful bunch of asters, in all the colours of the rainbow. She felt tears in her eyes as she took in how beautiful they were. “Oh, Terry…”

“It’s your birthday soon and I know they are your birth flower so… and they are extremely pretty,” he said, lifting his gaze and capturing her attention once more. “Like you.”

She felt her heart stutter at his words and the incredible intensity in his eyes.

“Two,” he said briskly, before she could speak, placing his other hand on her right one. “Your other present – a book. A very important book and the key to Quality Quidditch Supplies’ salvation.”

Hermione glanced at the slim volume in her right hand. It seemed such an uninspiring volume to have such a weighty destiny to it; plain black leather with a cracked spine and a red tongue of ribbon marking a position halfway through. Then she caught sight of the words emblazoned in gold lettering on the front.

“Double-Eight Quidditch. Ledger,” she read, her voice heavy with surprise. “How…”

“Not yet,” Terry said quickly, his hands still resting on hers.

The touch of his skin was making her feel extremely warm in more than one way. She felt herself almost drawn towards him, like some kind of gravity was exerting its influence over her.

“Three,” Terry whispered and Hermione held her breath. The silence seemed to go on forever, stretching until she wanted to scream and break it. Her heart was pounding like a drum and she couldn’t look away from his eyes. She saw them flick from her eyes, to her mouth and back again.

Then he was kissing her.

One quick step forward brought him in touching range and his lips pressed against hers, at once firm and soft. Hermione felt the world shift under her feet and the blood rushed to her head. The twin thumps of flowers and book hitting the floor went unnoticed as Hermione wrapped her arms around Terry’s neck, her fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him into a deeper kiss. Her mouth opened, tongue touching his lip lightly, inviting him in and he did not hesitate to accept. His hands found her waist and she sighed at the strength she felt in them. His hands ran up her back and into her hair, caressing her locks, gently.

She began to move back, pulling him towards the sofa. Need for him surged through her body, a desperate need to have him touch her, to caress her. In no time at all she had reached the sofa, their mouths still devouring each other and Terry lowered her gently to the soft material.

Without a word he positioned himself over her, between her legs, one of his hands firmly running up her body to slide tantalisingly over her breast. She cried out at the intense pleasure.

It was not the last moan of delight to escape her by the time the fire had burned down to embers.

***

She woke with a start, laid on the sofa, with the warm throw pulled up to her chin. Warm sunlight trickled into the room through gaps in the curtains and Hermione could hear the faint sounds of London beyond. She sat up slowly, scanning the room, finding it quiet and empty. There were no sounds in the entire flat.

She was alone.

After she had completed two searches of the rooms she accepted the truth. There was no evidence that anyone had visited her last night. The flowers were gone and the book was conspicuous by its absence. It had all been a dream then, a vivid one, but a dream nonetheless.

So why did she ache in that wonderful way that indicated a thoroughly enjoyable night with a man?

“I must be going crazy,” she muttered to herself. “Did he, or didn’t he?”

“Didn’t he what?” came Terry’s voice from the doorway.

She spun round in surprise as Terry was stepping through the front door. “Terry!” she said, strangely nervous. He was carrying a colourful bunch of asters, almost identical to those from last night (from her dream?) but they were in a cut crystal vase. The blooms spilled out in profusion and she could smell their fragrance from across the room. It was a heady scent that set her heart fluttering. In his other hand he carried a leather-bound book, gold lettering on the front. Last night it had been black leather, this morning the book was wrapped in brown. Or had it been the dim light that had made it _appear_ black?

The differences made her realise that it had been a dream after all. The similarities, though, made her doubt the evidence of her senses.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Terry said, concern in his voice as he stepped closer. “You look a little pale.”

“I… um… I had a dream last night,” she mumbled, her skin flushing hot and prickling at the memory of his hands, his mouth, his… Giving herself a shake she continued. “You visited me… and we…” Licking her lips nervously she glanced away from him, unable to say the words, embarrassed almost to tell this man that she had been dreaming about having some of the best sex of her life with him. The next moment though, she could see in his eyes that Terry knew what she was thinking.

_He is so annoyingly clever_ , the bushy-haired witch thought.

“Well,” he said with a smile. “Dreams can be very enjoyable and last night, I _wanted_ to visit you. But it was late and I thought that just showing up would be unreasonable.”

“Oh,” she whispered, hugging herself as her last hopes faded.

“Yeah, I thought my news, as brilliant as it was, should wait until the morning.” He came closer still, placing the vase on a little side table, putting the book next to it. “After all, a gentleman doesn’t just turn up in a beautiful lady’s fireplace at two o’clock in the morning.” His smile was dazzling, breathtaking and Hermione could hardly concentrate.

Then his words penetrated her fuzzy mind. “Wait, I didn’t tell you what time you arrived in my dream …”

His smile was feral, sensual and Hermione felt her heart start to pound again. “I know. When you dropped the flowers I felt the need to get a replacement bunch. I wanted to read the ledger a bit more too. I had hoped to be back before you woke but… damn that London traffic… it just wasn’t possible.”

“But, you said…” Hermione’s head was reeling now, her body tingling as she realised that it hadn’t been a dream after all.

“I said that a _gentleman_ doesn’t show up at a lady’s fireplace at such an unreasonable hour.” He stopped in front of her, dipping his head to brush his lips over hers. “I didn’t feel like being reasonable, or a gentleman, last night. I felt like telling the woman I’ve wanted since school just how wonderful she is and how much I wanted her.” He placed a hand on her waist and drew her closer. “You seemed to enjoy the telling.”

Hermione threw her arms around Terry’s neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. There wasn’t much talking for a while after that.

***

“So… with him ordering _that_ , and Nannette getting _this_ memo… how did that cause such a drastic problem for Nannette?” Hermione lay on Terry’s arm, both of them naked and warm in her large bed. The feel of Terry’s mouth on her neck was making it hard for her to concentrate on the two ledgers that hovered in front of them.

“Page 76 of Double-Eight,” Terry murmured, his voice vibrating through Hermione’s neck and causing gooseflesh to pebble her skin deliciously. The journal on the right flicked through the next few pages and then drifted closer for Hermione to read. She peered closely at the cramped, untidy handwriting. Marcus Flint, the _totally_ unexpected mastermind of Quality Quidditch Supplies’ woes, had terrible handwriting, Hermione decided.

“Oh my…” she breathed.

“Is that because you see the problem Nannette faced or is it that my hand appears to have found one of your breasts?” Terry whispered, smiling into her hair.

Moaning and sighing, Hermione’s head rolled back on the pillow. “Mmm, a little of both, I think. _Finite Incantatum_.” At her words the two journals closed and drifted to the floor on either side of the bed. Hermione rolled over and straddled Terry, rolling her hips over his groin, feeling him hardening beneath her.

“Sweet Merlin, you are insatiable!” he laughed, stroking his hands up her back.

“And you, sir, are very good at this particular team sport. Are you okay to go again?” Her last question was coy, taking one of his hands and sucking on the tips of his fingers, one by one.

Terry glanced down to where Hermione was sliding herself along his length and grinned. “I think so. We won’t need the contraceptive charm this time though.”

“Really? How come?”

“Because, my dear, this is the sixth time we have had sex since I returned… I believe that I will merely whistle at the climactic moment!” Despite his words Terry whispered the charm, wincing slightly as it settled into his flesh.

“You should have thought of that before you started playing with my tits, young man. Who’d have thought a mere manager could have such endurance!” Hermione breathed, reaching down and guiding him in. With a sigh of happiness she slid down, beginning a slow, gentle, rocking motion. “Don’t worry, I’ll go gentle on you.”

Terry’s head lolled back onto the pillows and he moaned in pleasure. “Endurance?” he said, with a laugh. “I manage the Chudley Cannons, I need a giant’s endurance to stop myself from breaking their brooms over their heads sometimes!”

Hermione circled her hips, sighing in ecstasy as she felt him touching sensitive areas within her. She hadn’t had sex for a long, long time. She had a lot of time to make up for. Fortunately, not only was Terry willing, he was also very, very good! Despite her growing pleasure Hermione wanted to continue their talk about the shop.

“So, that purchase that Flint made… on page 76?”

“Really, now?” Terry asked. When Hermione leant back, gripping his ankles and exposing her body fully to his hands he cried out softly, feeling her muscles tighten and release him in new and wonderful ways. “Well… fuck me… that feels… mmm… that purchase… makes a mockery of the memo, so Nannette ignores it… and makes the purchase.”

Hermione slowed her movements, pulling herself upright and reaching down to ghost a finger across her clit briefly. She gave a delicate shudder, slipping the finger into Terry’s mouth, his lips greedily tasting her juices, sucking the digit clean. Her voice was a little ragged as she felt her orgasm building, gradually increasing in intensity. “So Nannette makes the ill advised purchase, encouraged by Marcus’ example… oh, yes… mmm, I’m so close…”

“And, again… she’s stung… Merlin’s beard… where did you learn how to do that!?” Terry could barely focus on the conversation, not with Hermione doing that wonderful pulsation with her inner muscles.

Hermione smiled, breathing heavily as she felt herself so close to the edge. “Just shut up and make me cum,” she grated.

Without another word Terry, licked his thumb and stroked it, firmly, over her clit. She cried out in pleasure as the sudden stimulus was enough to tip the scales and her body convulsed as her orgasm rocked through her. Terry held her firmly and she continued to ride him, moaning and shaking with the intense feeling surging through her.

When the feeling had subsided Hermione smiled down at Terry, her eyes slightly glazed. She stroked her hands across his naked chest, tracing the hard muscles on his stomach. Lifting herself up she let him slide out of her, laughing softly at the disappointed look on his face. “Don’t worry, my love. I just want to experience your… whistle… a little differently.”

Without another word she pulled the covers over them and vanished beneath them, sliding down his body. Terry felt an even more pleasant, wet heat envelop his thoroughly used cock.

It didn’t take long for him to whistle for her.

***

Some time later they were cuddled up together in the hammock on Hermione’s balcony, high above the London streets, watching the sun rise. Each wore a large, soft and fluffy dressing gown, a blanket wrapped around their shoulders and a steaming cup of tea in their hands. Their bodies were freshly washed and they relaxed into each other’s arms, just enjoying the momentary hush over this section of London. Another hour would see traffic start to fill the streets and London awaken for another day.

Hermione turned slightly and planted a soft kiss on Terry’s cheek. “So, you never did tell me how you got the journal,” she said.

Terry smiled and nuzzled into her wonderful hair, with a small laugh. “My role in this grand adventure was not very big, unfortunately. I was merely a walk-on character in a much greater stage show. The production was superb and the main actors played their parts with characteristic aplomb.”

“What did you do, Terry?” Hermione had a funny feeling she knew what had happened. His description brought someone to mind; _two_ someones in fact.

“I think you may be familiar with this particular double act. They were only too happy to assist in mischief of this scale. In fact they said, back and forth, as they do… ‘Terry,’ they said. ‘We’re more than happy to help the young dynamo that is Miss Granger, as long as she promises to stop trying to buy into our empire. We’re doing very well, thank you very much and don’t require another partner, silent or otherwise.’ They do that double talk thing very well, don’t they? It’s difficult to keep up with them sometimes.”

Hermione groaned and looked up at him. “Oh no, you didn’t involve those two… please, tell me you didn’t?”

***


	3. Part 3 - I Solemnly Swear I Am Up To No Good

“I think we can work with this,” said the tall red-head in the yellow and brown checked suit, throwing his arm around Terry’s shoulder. His smile was sparkling with a wealth of mischief just waiting to get out.

Around them the shop, split over several levels, popped and whizzed as various items activated by themselves. Strange bubbling vials of multi-hued liquids crowded one set of shelves, innocuous looking pens filled one corner with a large warning sign above them. The occasional spark took off, soaring around the space in the centre of the room, before settling elsewhere.

Terry had only been in this shop once before and had found it fascinating. Every section of it contained something funny, or amazing, or disgusting, almost all of it created by the two owners. They had a section of Muggle magic tricks, not that they sold very well, but Terry had heard it was for their father.

“Yes, indeed,” the man said again, giving Terry a friendly hug with his arm. “We can help you and the lovely Miss Granger out.”

“Do you think so, Fred?” Terry asked.

“I’m Fred,” said another tall man, identical to the man at Terry’s side, dressed in an identical suit, brushing past Terry. He was carrying boxes of the most popular product at Weasley Wizarding Wheezes, the ‘Skiving Snackboxes’.

“Oh,” muttered Terry, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to remember the men’s movements over the last few minutes. He was trying to keep his eyes on both men at the same time. It was making him dizzy,  _ they _ were making him dizzy. This wasn’t the sort of battle of wits he was used to; this was a master-class in patter and witty misdirection that he couldn’t hope to win. But he was nothing if not persistent.

He had a suspicion that he was being played by the Weasley twins. He also knew that he had no chance of proving it, not until they had had their fun.

There was a time when they had lost the ability to use their similarities to cause havoc. In the last year of the war, George had lost an ear to a dark curse, and so the twins were rendered separate and identifiable. During the peacetime, however, their natural desire for trouble led them to, as they told it, ‘grow’ a new ear for George from ‘random ingredients, found in the bottom shelf of their mother’s larder’ and ‘the hair from the testicle of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack’.

Terry didn’t believe the story, personally, though he had heard that Xenophilius Lovegood had petitioned the twin’s to tell him where they had found the Snorkack. Apparently Fred had refused to tell, with George saying that they had ‘only found the testicle anyway’.

It was such a typically overblown and comedic story but it had grown wings and most of the Wizarding world willingly accepted it as truth. Terry had no idea how they had grown the ear and the twins were sticking to their story.

Terry looked up at the man at his shoulder, surreptitiously checking the man’s ears. “Sorry about that, George,” his voice lifting slightly at the end..

“That’s okay, young Boot,” said the suspected George, ignoring the questioning tone completely. “Our young sibling thinks highly of you.”

“Ronald thinks you’re the best manager the Cannons have had in years,” said his brother, bringing Terry’s eyes over to him, “and I’d have to agree.”

“Well, that’s nice of you both to say so,” said Terry, looking back again and finding George was gone from his side. Turning in a circle he found both men behind him, looking over a piece of paper.  _ How did they move so damn fast? _ He gave a sigh of frustration. They were once more anonymous as they separated, one walking towards him and handing him a small badge with a multicoloured ‘W’ on it.

“George thinks this is the way to go,” unidentifiable Weasley twin number one said.

Terry found himself unable to believe them when they named each other; he was on the verge of calling them both Freorge! “And what does this do?” he asked, turning the badge over in his hand. There was a small button on the back, set near the top of the central line. A small pad, set in the middle of the badge, was presumably the way the badges were secured to clothing.

“This,” said twin who could be George from across the shop, “is our latest innovation.

“Need to be in two places at once?” said the man beside Terry.

“Can’t afford to miss that important meeting?” enquired the other, stepping up on Terry’s other side.

“But also need to get to your son’s Quidditch match?” ‘Fred’ took the badge from Terry as the confused Ravenclaw’s head swivelled between the two red-heads. He kept a very close eye on them and tried to keep in mind who they professed to be. ‘Fred’ stuck the badge onto his lapel and Terry felt a wave of relief, as it made it possible to identify them now.

“With the ‘Dopple-O-Badge’” announced ‘George’.

“It’s not a problem,” said ‘Fred’, walking away from Terry.

Terry did a sudden double take as the Weasley brother gave a slight shimmer and a second copy of ‘Fred’ stepped away. The duplicate picked up the Skiving Snackboxes and began stacking the shelves. It wasn’t an illusion; the double was solid and real. Now there were  _ two _ ‘Fred’s’ – as if this wasn’t hard enough, thought Terry.

“You see,” said ‘George’. “This device allows you to do all sorts.” Terry’s heart sank as he saw a badge on the man’s lapel. So much for easily identifying them!

“All sorts, indeed,” called one of the ‘Freds’ from one of the upper floors. In the corner, the duplicate continued to stack the shelves.

“So,” asked Terry, gesturing towards the twin… triplet?... ‘shelf-stacking Fred’ “Is the duplicate… aware?”

The shelf stacker turned and fixed Terry with an annoyed stare. “Of course I’m aware! Besides, I’m not the doppelganger,” he said, pointing up at the upper level. “He is.”

“But…” Terry felt himself rapidly losing control of the situation. “How… wha?” His mind just shrugged and told him that he was on his own. Looking around he saw that the other Weasley brother appeared to be talking to himself… or the copy that had been upstairs. He rubbed his eyes in frustration.

“Look,” said a Weasley, putting his arm around the beleaguered Ravenclaw. “It’s simple really.”

“The copies,” said another Weasley, sitting on Terry’s right side. “They’re exact duplicates of the badge wearer.”

“Fully aware.”

“And cognizant of their actions.”

“Able to make decisions, like you would yourself.”

“Because they  _ are _ you. Undetectable.”

“And fool proof.”

“And when you are done.”

“You press the button on the badge again,” said the man on Terry’s left, pressing his badge and vanishing with a rush of smoke that whirled past Terry’s face and merged with the twin on his other side, who was also pressing his badge.

“And you combine once more; the knowledge and memories obtained merge and it is as if you have been in two places at once. Isn’t that right, Fred?”

Terry looked over to see the two Freds were tossing a Quaffle back and forth. Terry was convinced that, given their movements, the men over there should be George!

“Right you are, George. That’s exactly how it works.” The ‘Fred’ on the left threw the Quaffle to his duplicate and then walked towards Terry. “You see, as George has said.” ‘Fred’ suddenly vanished in a rush of smoke that surged backwards into the red-head holding the Quaffle and pressing his badge.

“They are undetectable copies,” he said, spinning the Quaffle on one finger and walking towards Terry and his brother.

Terry glanced between the pair of them. “Do you guys practice this double act of yours, or does it come naturally?”

“I’m not sure what he’s implying brother-mine,” said ‘Fred’, tossing the Quaffle at Terry, who caught it easily.

“I think he’s implying that we’re putting on a show, old boy”

“Indeed? Maybe we should charge admission?”

“Could be on to something there, my fine-featured brother.”

“Fliers could be needed.”

“Some sort of advertising certainly.”

“Maybe an article in the Prophet?”

“Not a bad idea…”

“Okay, stop it!” cried Terry, suddenly. Despite himself he was smiling. “You’re giving me a headache and my neck hurts from trying to keep up with you both. This plan of yours… it’s… well…”

“Brilliant?”

“Impeccable?”

“Soufflé?”

“Soufflé, brother?”

“Yes, beautiful and delicious but very delicate; one mistake in the preparation and it’s buggered.”

“Ah, indeed. Soufflé it is!”

Terry stood between the two sniggering brothers, having completely lost track of which one was which now. “Soufflé then,” he said, holding out the Quaffle.

Taking it from him, one of the brothers grinned widely. “As I said at the beginning, George thinks this is the way to go.”

“I’d have to agree with him there, Fred,” said Terry, grinning just as widely, landing feet first in the trap.

“I’m Fred,” said the other twin. “George sometimes speaks in the third person.”

Terry covered his face and groaned as the twins laughed.

***

Terry leant back in his chair as Hermione placed the plates down on the table. “Thanks, hun,” he said, capturing her hand for a brief kiss as she moved away.

“It must have been absolute chaos,” Hermione laughed as she sat down.

Picking up his knife and fork, Terry dug into the lasagne Hermione had made for them. “It was. And that was before they even got into Double-Eight! I just wish I had been able to watch it all unfold.”

Hermione smiled, glancing over to where the ledger from Double-Eight lay on the table. “Fred, George and Lee Jordan. Two of each.” She shook her head with a laugh.

Terry grinned, wolfishly. “The six of them went in over the course of a few minutes. They hid in different parts of the shop, trying to cause as much confusion as possible without being discovered. That slimy shit, Marcus, didn’t stand a chance! This is excellent, by the way,” Terry enthused, waving his knife at the lasagne.

“Thank you,” Hermione said with a smile. “My mum taught me how to cook it. It’s one of her signature dishes.” Pulling the ledger over to her she flicked to the inside of the front cover, Marcus’ name on the page. “I never thought Marcus Flint would be running a shop.”

“Same here. It makes sense in some ways,” mused Terry. “He  _ is _ a professional Quidditch player, up north where his family lives. I suppose he got the strange idea for using Quidditch tactics and plays in a business environment.” Terry shook his head, wonderingly. “It’s crazy enough to work too, if you use the right tactics. The Wronski Feint ploy… well, genius really. And that was just the start, judging by the ledger.”

“So,” Hermione said. “What did you find when you got to enter Double-Eight to play your part?”

Terry laughed, remembering the harried look on Marcus’ face as he tried to serve three Weasley twins at once, while Lee Jordon threw Quaffles at the wall  _ and  _ tested a broom. “He barely even noticed that I had walked in, to be honest. I just strolled straight through and entered his office.”

Terry put down his fork and rubbed his forehead. “Something’s been bothering me about the whole setup though. There was no organisation in that office, no evidence that Marcus knows how to organise the shop at all! Based on what I saw, it seems incredible that he bettered Nannette.” Terry shrugged and picked up his fork again. “Then again, he is a very good player. Maybe that makes up for his lack of administration skills.”

“Maybe he had help?” Hermione suggested. “It could be someone to sound out his plans on, or even someone that Nannette knew; someone who could take messages to her maybe? Pass on his false information?”

“Maybe. It just keeps bugging me though. I have no idea who it could be either.” Terry smiled up at Hermione. “Anyway, once I got into the office I just found the ledger, out in the open, copied it and waited. A short time after I entered, the twins let off a few of their fireworks and I Disapparated under cover of the noise." He gave a grunt and fished about in his pocket. Pulling a folded sheet of paper or, he handed it to her. “Fred and/or George asked me to give this to you.” He watched with a grin as Hermione unfolded the page.

“This… thisis an invoice,” she said, incredulously. “They’re  _ charging _ me for three Dopple-O-Badges and two hours labour!? They are incorrigible!”

Terry laughed at her indignant expression. “Don’t worry, I’ve already paid them, he said.

Hermione folded the invoice up and put it one side, muttering under her breath about the twins.

“You know,” said Terry thoughtfully. “If those two applied themselves to something a little less… mischief oriented, they could rule the world with their magic.”

“I know! It’s a source of constant irritation for me,” Hermione said with a laugh.

***

The strange looking man marched into Double-Eight Quidditch and strode up to the counter. He was dressed as if to play Quidditch; long, blue robes with a number ‘5’ on his back. His hair, what there was of it, was dark and scraggly with a large bald patch in the centre. His moustache was rigid and grey, completely at odds with the hair on top of his head. In one hand he carried a limp, ragged piece of leather.

“I’d like to make a complaint ‘bout the quality of your stock, young man!” he said, loudly, attracting the attention of the other customers.

They looked on in interest as Marcus Flint fixed a helpful smile on his face. “Quality of…?”

“I bought this Quaffle,” the man said over Marcus, waving the piece of leather in the shop keeper’s face. “This Quaffle ‘ere! I bought it less than an hour ago and it ‘as burst already.”

“I’m sorry sir, but it’s a good quality ball…”

“I DID NOT ABUSE IT!” the man roared, startling both Marcus and his other customers. One of them started to quietly move towards the exit, trying not to be noticed. “’ow very dare you, sir! ‘ow dare you suggest such a thing!” continued the angry man.

“No, no, I wasn’t…” started Marcus desperately, waving his hands, noticing his customer sidle out of the shop.

“This ’ere Quaffle lasted one throw! ONE!” The man leant forward, slapping the Quaffle on the counter. “Come on then. What charms did you use to ‘old it together? Somethin’ that would only last ‘alf an hour, then fail, no doubt? Awful be’aviour, awful, sir!”

Marcus gritted his teeth in a rictus of a smile. “I can assure you, sir…”

“Look, you stupid bastard!” the man yelled into Marcus’ face, grabbing and waving the flaccid piece of leather. “This is buggered! It’s no longer ball shaped! This Quaffle is no more! It is defunct, deflated. It is no longer Quaffle-like but is as useless as the rest of the stuff you sell. It got an ‘ole in it the size of a  _ Snitch _ , after the first throw, causin’ it to burst. You couldn’t throw this thing if life  _ itself _ depended on it! It’s ‘istory! It’s now more use as a tea-cosy! It’s lost its puff! It ‘as as much chance of scoring as Gregory Goyle! THIS!” he bellowed, “is an EX-QUAFFLE!!”

The man began to beat Marcus round the head and shoulders with the limp and deflated Quaffle, continuing to shout obscenities. Marcus tried to defend himself and talk the man down, protesting that he had not tried to cheat him and, if he would stop hitting him, Marcus would get him a new ball. Around the shop people continued to edge their way towards the exit, nervous about the confrontation and unwilling to stay.

As soon as the shop was empty the angry customer dropped the Quaffle to the counter and gave a laugh. Marcus could only stare at him in shock. “What the hell is your problem?” he yelled. “You’ve driven all my customers away! I was trying to help you!”

The man pulled at his chin, the fake skin that Fred had applied peeling off in one smooth movement. Terry Boot dropped the face and wig onto the counter and leant forward, staying into Marcus' shocked face.. “That, you little shit,” he hissed, “was just the beginning. Book me for Blagging or Bumphing if you want… after all, it was my intention to mess up your sales for the day.

“We know about your little plan,” Terry continued angrily. “Worked well on a defenceless old lady, didn’t it.” He reached out and grabbed Marcus by his collar and pulled him close. “Now you’re dealing with Hermione and I… and we know how to cheat as much as you do. We’re also smarter than you and know how to avoid your little game plans.”

Shoving Marcus away, Terry turned and walked towards the door. “Watch out for the attack formations, Marcus. We know all your tactics and have plenty of our own. If I can get the  _ Chudley Cannons _ to win their matches, I can certainly best you! You’d be better off throwing in the towel now. Save yourself the humiliation.”

Terry slammed the door behind him, marching up the street with a triumphant grin on his face. That had been such a rush and the look on Flint’s face had been priceless! He saw a few of Double-Eight’s customers making their way up the street towards Quality Quidditch Supplies, where Hermione waited with the first of their planned “back in business” deals. Terry let out a whoop of laughter as he ran along the Alley, towards QQS and his girlfriend.

Today was the start of the war!

***


	4. Part 4: Wills, Secrets, and Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, peeps! Work got busy, and I got distracted by it. Here is the final chapter, and I hope you enjoy it!

“Miss Granger?” called the goblin, beckoning the young witch over to the office. He was dressed in a tailored suit of dark blue with the chain of a pocket watch hanging from the breast pocket. Small wire-framed glasses perched on his nose, his yellowish skin slightly magnified through the lenses. The goblin disappeared through the door before Hermione had finished standing.

She made her way through the large, open hall at Gringott’s, a sheaf of papers clutched in her hand. Entering the office and closing the door behind her, she sat down in front of the goblin’s desk, feeling a little nervous. The name plate at the front of the desk read ‘Wratshuck’

“Miss Granger?” said the goblin again, recalling her back to herself. “We need to discuss the finances for Quality Quidditch Supplies, one of your businesses on Diagon Alley.”

The goblin was very matter of fact but Hermione could sense a little bit of satisfaction in his tone and she became nervous. “Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong with the finances, Mr. Wratshuck? We file our return each month. Our ledger is up to date and balanced. We’ve been in the black for the last six months and have never missed a rental payment on the building. Our customers are returning in droves…” Hermione could feel her voice rising, a hint of panic creeping into it. With a firm hand she steadied herself. “Is there a problem?” she said in a calmer voice.

Wratshuck had merely watched her over the rim of his glasses. His beady little eyes were unreadable. “Nothing is wrong, Miss Granger. Nothing at all.”

Hermione sighed in relief. “Good. Well, yes, that’s correct. Everything is right!”

“Indeed, Miss Granger,” murmured the goblin. “Now, the matter we need to discuss is the final portion of Mrs. Nannette Duggen’s last will and testament.”

“Nannette’s…? But this was done months ago, wasn’t it?” Hermione was confused; Nannette’s will was what had started this whirlwind of a year. It had been her most challenging business venture and had brought her together with Terry Boot, who had been instrumental in helping her through it. Both during the day and the night, she thought with a twinge of pleasure.

“The main bulk of Nannette’s will was dealt with, yes. But she had a special stipulation that would only be read once Quality Quidditch Supplies had been in the black for six consecutive months. With this month’s return, you have activated this final portion of the will.” Wratshuck took a rolled parchment from his desk and tapped a small crystal by his side. “Mr Flint? You can come in now,” he said to the air.

Hermione spun in her chair as a previously unnoticed side door opened and Marcus Flint stepped into the office carrying a rolled parchment that bore the Quality Quidditch Supplies logo on it. “What are you doing here?” she spluttered as Marcus, an arrogant sneer on his face, took the chair next to her.

“And hello to you too, Granger,” he said, with a nasty smile. “I’ve been looking over your proposal. It’s less than generous, isn’t it?”

She bristled slightly. “Justified as you barely have a business left worth talking about. Considering what you did to Nanette, I also consider it poetic justice!” She thrust out her chin defiantly

He merely smirked and handed the parchment to her. “I’ve signed it and I’d like Mr Wratshuck to witness it. As of today, you own Double-Eight Quidditch. Done deal.”

Marcus looked at the goblin, who held out his hand to Hermione. “Miss Granger? If I may see that document, please?”

Ignoring Wratshuck for the moment, still processing what she had heard, Hermione had unrolled the parchment. Marcus had accepted her terms. The document was signed. Still reeling in surprise she handed the scroll to the goblin. “Why now? And what does this have to do with Nannette’s will?” Hermione looked between Marcus and Wratshuck.

“Wow,” muttered Marcus, rolling his eyes. “The famous Granger intellect. Little exaggerated it seems.”

Seething, Hermione rounded on the former owner of Double-Eight and stabbed an indignant finger at him. “Look, you! I don’t have to put up with this crap from you… you slimy, devious Slytherin bastard! I’ve had to put up with the after effects of your evil little plot for the last year and I’m sick to the back teeth of it!”

“Easy, Granger. Calm down,” he said with a laugh. “You’re gonna miss the best bit, if you don’t pay attention.”

Hermione spun to look at Wratshuck again, seeing that the goblin had been waiting patiently to speak. “Sorry, Mr Wratshuck,” she mumbled as Marcus snickered. Hermione tossed her hair angrily, determined to ignore him.

Clearing his throat, Wratshuck returned the signed scroll to Hermione. “That’s all in order, Mr Flint,” he said. “You have fulfilled the final stipulation in Mrs Nannette Duggen’s will as well.”

“WHAT!?” Hermione shrieked, her chair tumbling backwards as she surged to her feet. “What has  _ he _ got to do with Nannette!?”

“Miss Granger!” said Wratshuck, angrily. “Please sit down! I do not have all day to complete this business. There are other customers that require my attention.

Muttering under her breath, ignoring Marcus’ insolent look, Hermione righted her chair and dropped into it. She leant back with her arms folded, anger boiling in her veins.

“Now,” Wratshuck said, carefully reading the document before him. “This be the last will and testament of I, Mrs Nannette Duggen.”

The goblin’s voice changed and, though he continued to mouth the words, the voice that spoke them aloud was Nannette Duggen’s. Hermione felt her heart ache to hear the old lady’s voice once more. More surprising was Marcus, a flash of grief passing over his face at the sound of Nannette’s voice. His features became neutral again so quickly that Hermione almost thought she had imagined it.

“This final portion of my will, written hereafter, shall be read only to the following two people, and upon completion of certain tasks.

“My business partner and friend, Miss Hermione Jean Granger. Upon the day that she brings Quality Quidditch Supplies’ monthly return to Gringott’s Bank, and shows six successive months in the black. And to my nephew, Marcus Flint, upon the day that he surrendered possession of Double-Eight Quidditch to Miss Hermione Jean Granger, following a determined and spirited battle in the realm of business.”

“Nephew?” mouthed Hermione.

Marcus, glancing over at her, merely nodded slightly.

Wratshuck ignored the silent exchange, continuing to read as a vessel of Nannette, “To Hermione Jean Granger, I leave thee hope, dear girl. You have gained more than you could ever have thought possible, of this I have no doubt. I leave you the contents of vault 431 for your interest and edification. I also wish you the very best of luck for the future and I thank you for making an old dear happy in her twilight years. I only hope that I have been able to bring you some measure of the joy you brought me.”

Hermione felt tears at the corner of her eyes at Nannette’s words. She had no idea what she had been given, not physically, but the saving of Quality Quidditch Supplies truly  _ had _ brought her so much more than she had expected. A degree of enthusiasm for a sport she had never really enjoyed and a lover who made every day a delight for her – and every night a pleasure. It was almost as if Nannette had hoped for this very result.

Wratshuck continued speaking, “To Mr Marcus Flint I leave thee the sum of my worldly wealth, stored in Vault 432 at Gringotts Bank, for his devotion and the love given to his secretive aunt. From the bottom of my heart, I give you thanks, dear nephew. Also, I told you I was right, my boy.”

Hermione, through her own tears, was surprised to see Marcus’ eyes glistening with unshed tears. Hermione felt another lump in her own throat to see it. Marcus drew a breath that shook slightly and dashed the tears from his eyes.

Wratshuck gave a slight shiver and spoke in his normal voice once more. “The final sections of Nannette Duggen’s will have been read and understood. If you would both follow me, please?” Standing, the goblin led the way out of the office and towards the carriages that Hermione remembered from her previous visits to Gringotts. Some of the goblins on duty glared at her. She blushed furiously under their gaze. She  _ had  _ apologised, in her book, to all of the staff at Gringotts for the trouble caused that infamous day, so many years ago now.

Desperate to avoid their stares she turned to Marcus. “Nannette was your aunt?”

“Well done, Granger,” he said sarcastically. “Good to know you were paying attention there.”

“Can we stop this now?” she sighed. “This battle is over, you know? We’ve both been affected by Nannette and, like it or lump it Marcus, we clearly both loved the same old lady.”

Marcus huffed a sigh of his own. “Fine. Yes, Nannette was my aunt. And before you ask she made me swear not to talk about it. Especially to you.”

“But…”

“Ah-ah!” Marcus said, raising a finger and wagging it in Hermione’s face. “Swore!” 

“Fine. Be mysterious then,” she muttered as they settled into the cart and began the journey to the vaults. Hermione mulled over what she had heard and couldn’t come up with any answers that made sense. Why would Nannette’s own nephew try to drive her out of business… and then get rewarded for it? She couldn’t make sense of it.

Once the cart had stopped Marcus climbed out and stood to one side, waiting for Hermione to alight. “Look, Granger,” he said as she moved past him. Holding out his hand he smiled slightly. “You’ll get all the answers you want, just not from me. I’m moving away again soon, so I just wanted to say… well played, Hermione.”

Hermione took Marcus’ hand, searching his face for sarcasm, condescension... Anything but the genuine look of respect that she saw there. She didn’t find it. “You too, Marcus. All things considered, you were a worthy opponent.”

With an unreadable smile, Marcus turned and walked towards his new vault.

A short time later Hermione was standing in vault 431, looking at her new possessions in confusion. There was a note, written in Nannette’s delicate script; “I want you to enjoy these with your man, Hermione. Thank you for helping and talking to a foolish old woman. I wish you all the very best. Both of you. Love always, Nannette.”

Hermione’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she tapped the larger of the two items, shrinking it down and placing it into her faithful beaded bag. Carefully she placed the other item alongside it and returned to the cart. She was silent on the return journey to the surface, mulling over the puzzles that seemed to be coming, thick and fast today.

***

“A pensieve and some memories?” said Terry, staring at the two items that now sat in the centre of Hermione’s flat. “Strange things to leave anyone… never mind the person who saved her shop. So, shall we?”

Hermione nodded and pulled the stopper from the vial. Gently she poured the silvery contents into the pensieve, watching as they swirled and flowed in the bowl, graceful and ethereal. The light from the shifting thoughts grew slowly, lighting the room brighter than the lamps.

Holding hands, Hermione and Terry ducked down to place their faces into the strange substance and felt themselves topple forward, into the past.

Together they landed in the office of Quality Quidditch Supplies, watching as Nannette wrote in the ledger, her hand strong and sure. From her appearance it seemed to be several years ago. The shelves were neat and tidy; all documents filed and catalogued just how she liked them.

“Right, make a gap!” called a man’s voice and Hermione gasped in surprise as a man entered the room carrying a tray, with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on it.

The younger Terry placed the tray on Nannette’s desk and passed a tea cup to the old lady. Settling in a free chair Terry sighed, contentedly. Taking their teas the pair saluted one another. Then they began to speak and the real Terry flushed as he suddenly remembered the conversations that he used to have with Nannette. Too late, he turned to Hermione, to try and get her to leave, just as he heard his younger self say, “I’ve fancied Hermione for years!”

Terry moaned and closed his eyes, his face flushing pink. Hermione gave a small laugh at this announcement and turned to her lover. “You talked about me to Nannette?”

“Um… would it be pointless to deny it?” he said. Hermione nodded, still listening with half an ear as the memories discussed Terry’s feelings for Hermione, in agonising detail. Nannette was asking why he had never told Hermione how he felt. He replied, laughing, “I don’t think I could, to be honest. She’s like… no one I’ve ever met before. You don’t just walk up to a girl like her and say ‘Hey, I like you lots, wanna go out?’”

Nannette laughed. “That’s exactly what you do, my boy!” Relentlessly she started to advise Terry that Hermione was not a monster to be feared, but a woman to be loved. If he approached her in the right way, Nannette had faith that Terry could sweep her off her feet.

“Well, we didn’t talk about you all the time,” Terry said, his cheeks bright red, trying to talk louder than Nanette and himself, who were now discussing Hermione’s incredible mind. “We talked about Quidditch too. You just... seemed to crop up in conversation. A lot.” As Hermione smiled Terry shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve fancied you for years!”

Hermione planted a kiss on his cheek, just as the memory shifted, silvery smoke swirling the image of the office away and replacing it with Hermione’s flat. Nannette was sitting on the sofa, sipping her tea, Hermione was next to her. She was enthusiastically describing her latest business deal.

Hermione remembered these conversations. Nannette had visited her every few weeks after Hermione had helped her and their talks had always been so fun, lively and witty, filled with interesting facts. As she finished enthusing about business, Nannette said, “Do you ever stop to smell the roses, my dear? Or just have some fun with a nice young man? Or a not-so-nice young man!” she added with a wink. “Or girl! I know several young ladies that I’m sure would enjoy your company, if that was your preference?”

Hermione waved her hand dismissively. “I never have time for that sort of thing, Nannette.” She gave a wink of her own “And as much fun as that is, I’m far too busy these days, with one thing and another. Besides, there are very few men that I’ve met that could handle being the play thing of such a successful business woman!” She and Nannette laughed, and the old lady continued to speak about how important she felt it was to have someone close, someone to talk to about hopes and dreams. She spoke of her husband, dead some two years now, telling Hermione about the joy of having had this man in her life for over eighty years; the wonderful memories, the bitter arguments and the sweet, sweet making up. She wished that Hermione would find someone; someone that would be there for her, the way Archie had been there for Nannette. “Don’t get me wrong,” she added, “us successful business women don’t need a man to ‘complete’ us!”

“I should think not!”

“But it is nice to have someone to talk to, dear.” She paused and waggled her eyebrows. “And to spend plenty of time… not talking!” The pair of them cackled at that.

The real Hermione smiled sadly as Terry slipped his arms around her. “She just wanted me to be happy, but all I could see was my business dealings.”

“I think she would be happy to see you now though. Here you are with your own play thing… happy and so very satisfied…” Hermione laughed at the mock arrogance in Terry’s voice.

“Blowing our own trumpet are we, darling?” she asked, with a smile.

“Maybe. Are you not satisfied, my love?” he said, turning her in his arms and kissing her gently on the cheek.

“Yes, very,” she said, closing her eyes and pressing her lips to his.

When they parted she noticed that the image of her flat had gone, replaced with a place she had never seen. It was a large room, dark at the edges where the lamp light did not quite reach. In the centre were two elegant sofas, decorated in green and silver, sinuous lines of stitching crossing the material in hypnotic patterns. It had a slightly oppressive feeling and Hermione shivered.

On one sofa, once more with a cup of tea in her hands, was Nannette. Opposite her, lounging indolently, was Marcus Flint. He had a sour look on his face, as if he was not enjoying the conversation all that much.

“Now, Marcus,” Nannette said, sternly. “You will help in this or you will be cut off. It’s simple.”

“But Aunt,” he groaned, sitting up and leaning forward. “Surrender to Granger? Of all the people…”

“No, Marcus! You will not  _ surrender _ to Hermione. You will  _ concede _ , when she has beaten you into a corner and there is nowhere else to turn. If you give up beforehand you will not get your inheritance. It is that simple. I have a plan for young Hermione and you need to play your part. Let’s go through it again, because I don’t feel that you are getting it!”

Hermione turned to Terry, surprised. She had never heard Nannette’s voice take on that waspish, angry tone before. This conversation seemed to be suggesting the impossible, but every word made it clearer.

“When I die, Hermione will inherit Quality Quidditch Supplies. Before I go, you and I will work to make sure that the shop is in trouble. I will buy and help you run another Quidditch shop. Together, we will make it seem as if you are sabotaging me, a poor old lady with no-one to turn to. Quidditch tactics used in a business setting will provide adequate breadcrumbs for the pair of them to follow. And in following the trail they will, I hope, confess their love for each other.”

“This is ridiculous, Aunt Nannette! Why not just tell them to kiss and get it over with. You seem to think they are perfect for each other, so why not set them up on a blind date. Tell them to meet you somewhere and don’t show up. Hit them with a love potion! Anything!” he yelled. “Why something this convoluted? Why a plan that, by your own admission, you won’t even live to see fulfilled?!” Marcus was pacing the floor now, gesticulating wildly.

“I see this as a much better, and more interesting, method of bringing these two wonderful people together.” Nannette ignored Marcus as he made a gagging noise. “Terry Boot is a kind and intelligent man. He is mad for Hermione, but will never find the courage to tell her because he is slightly intimidated by her success. I have begun to help him in that respect and I have confidence that, by the time our little plot begins, he will be more than ready to make the first move, if necessary. Now, sit!”

“As for Hermione,” Nannette continued as Marcus threw himself down onto the sofa again. “She is warm, loving and so very lonely. She doesn’t realise the last part yet, but she will. I do not want her to work it out when she is too old to do anything about it. I want her to be happy and fulfilled, in business and pleasure, before the year is out.”

Hermione wiped tears from her eyes as all of the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Terry wrapped her arms around her and held her close. Clearly the thought of a happy and fulfilled Hermione Granger did not appeal to Marcus, as his face twisted into a more and more disgusted look as Nanette spoke.

“Hermione and Terry will quickly work out what is happening,” Nannette continued. “They will blame you and fight to bring you down, in the end buying you out as the final blow. I want you to fight, every step of the way. You will lose because, to be honest and without being horrible, you will be no match for the two of them together.” Marcus shrugged, accepting this comment easily. “You will then inherit my money and Hermione will learn just how devious this dear, little old lady was.”

Marcus shook his head and sighed heavily. “Okay, I’ll do it. This isn’t about your money though.” He rose and walked over to her chair. Kneeling next to her, he took her hand. “I’m doing this because I love you. I’d do it if you promised me nothing in return.”

“I know, my boy,” Nannette said, patting him on the cheek. “I just think that eight to ten months, give or take, of stressful business battling deserves some reward, at least.”

As the conversation became muted and muffled, Terry shook his head in wonder. “I can’t believe it. This whole thing was her plan all along!”

Hermione smiled as Nannette raised her tea cup and took a sip. “She seems so proud of herself.”

“She should be,” muttered Terry. “It worked exactly as she imagined it would. The battle with Marcus took nine months! She’s a bloody genius!”

Around them the silvery mist swirled in again, obscuring everything and leaving them shrouded in a softly glowing darkness.

“Terry,” Hermione whispered, turning to rest her head on his chest. “I wish she had lived to see us together.”

“Me too, darling. Me too.” Terry stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.

Hermione tilted her head back and they kissed, a feeling of peace and contentment stealing over them. She thanked Nannette in her heart for all that she had given her through her devious scheming. Around them the mist rose, reaching above their waists now. There were no other images appearing but a gentle voice spoke, entering their thoughts..

“To my dear friend, Hermione, I give my eternal thanks. I wish a bright future for you, and a relationship filled with the love and pleasure you deserve. To my favourite customer and maker of the best cup of tea I have ever had, Terry. My dear boy, take care of Hermione. Love her openly, as you have loved her in your heart all these years.

“And, to you both. Please forgive an old, romantic Slytherin for wanting the chance to play in just one more plot. I leave thee with the fondest of hopes, dear friends.”

The mist covered them completely as the memory faded. They found themselves back in Hermione’s flat, arms round each other still, nose to nose and gazing into each other’s eyes.

“I love you, Terry,” she whispered, cupping his face gently.

“I love you too, Hermione”

_ ~+nox+~ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this little old thing, and I really hope you enjoyed the journey.  
> Hoping you're all staying safe! Have a great day, NC x


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